


for science! (honey, don't feed me, i will come back)

by redlight



Series: monsterfuckers inc. [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blasphemy, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Body Modification, Breeding, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Science, Experimental Style, F/M, Human Experimentation, Human/Monster Romance, Monster Transformation, Obsession, Painful Sex, Psychological Horror, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Size Difference, Surgery, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 09:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23969251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: First is the change of his wretched hands.These are bigger, Kazimir thinks. His sinew is harsh under the bright lights of the laboratory. His fingernails have fallen out weeks ago, his phalanges have started to curl inward."Lovely," the doctor says, half-breathless. "You're so lovely."
Relationships: Mad Scientist/The Man She Turned into a Monster, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: monsterfuckers inc. [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1400176
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	for science! (honey, don't feed me, i will come back)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/gifts).



Kazimir has started to write within his spreadsheets.

He, admittedly, quite tragically, needs to go back and erase them quite often. As much as he'd like to dream himself a poet, he couldn't imagine having to face another psychiatric evaluation, especially after the _accident_. Everyone avoids him and pities him and disgraces him enough.

So. Kazimir has been careful to clean his reports up. Alarming content isn't quite what his bosses ask from him.

Still. He's been writing in his spreadsheets.

Kazimir writes, occasionally, about the awful hunger in the barren pit of his stomach. He writes of the sweet _rush_ and _flush_ of the blood he longs to taste, in the deepest darkest dires of the night, when his mind is lodged open and his unresting thoughts circulate like aquarium-filter current. His spreadsheets can become crowded and clouded, with as many wretched things he can inflict on their blank state.

In row 4, column J, he has his longing of _restraint_ spiraling on and on, between black borders in a pastel gray box, cut off for lack of space. He has his written evidence, his hypothetical musings. The half-hearted plans of a hypothetical hijacking of a hypothetical school bus. The hypothetical gutting of a hypothetical man. The hypothetical hanging of a hypothetical witch from the hypothetical rafters.

Kazimir looks over his data, and he edits, and he revises. He hits Ctrl + X.

In row 11 column L, he writes of wolves and pteranodons. He writes of teeth and feathers, jaws with forcing power like dynamite and love like cerebrospinal fluid. He writes of terror and tyrannosaurs, draws his knowledge from a useless biological science degree he completed ten years ago. Trivia facts and worthless information. He imagines himself with the cold blood of amphibian ailments, with the desperate eyesight of a midnight tiger.

He imagines himself with his human flesh sloughed off, scalpels and serotonin, and he imagines a smile on his face.

Kazimir highlights the text. He hits Ctrl + X.

When he writes his report, with accurate graphs and data, with his spreadsheets corrected, well, he writes his name and his fingertips clitter-clatter noisily against his shoddy keyboard. He writes of a horrid desire to walk up to the Abrahamic God herself, on her throne of Seven Skies with seven hundred thousand eyes that have never been eyes, and he compulsively thinks of pulling her down and tearing her open, finding religion in her not-guts and her not-love, and he thinks of _blaspheming_.

Kazimir erases that too. Ctrl + Z.

His calendar reminds him of his upcoming doctor's appointment. Physical therapy or another psych evaluation, he hasn't written down—Kazimir of a week ago should've been more considerate to the Kazimir of now.

* * *

Kazimir finds it while he is procrastinating. He always seems to procrastinate _something_ , these days—work, bills, debt and death. Today he clicks through his spreadsheets and into forums of data collection and study—he's been participating in these jobs ever since his own time in college, earning something meager off of being a lab rat, but it's always been fascinating—being studied, being _known_ like that.

Kazimir might be delirious or he might have skipped his antidepressants again, but being _known_ sends a twinge of sharp-hot-burn in between his ribs. Sends him into a spiral in his own flesh. He's always signed up for studies he's eligible for without a second thought, as something to do, whenever he had the time—but lately he's a bit too desperate.

There is a post that seems as though it was not meant to be found. See, it's in the cobwebs and corners of the internet, not anything conspicuous, but probably not accessible through search engine filters either. It's innocuous, maybe. Kazimir doesn't really care, but his name catches on the name of the head researcher.

DR. RAVEENA BRIGHT

It's pretty. The premise is prettier.

AUGMENTATION OF HUMAN ANATOMY IN EFFORTS TO COMBAT INFECTIOUS DISEASE.

Kazimir checks his calendar—his Saturday is clear. He submits an application.

* * *

He has already decided that he will do _anything_.

He has held his breath close, his cold fingers shaking with too much caffeine, the pit of his stomach void, the back of his throat quivering with bile. His head aches and buzzes always, too loud and too distracted. He always feels the bile. He always feels the nausea. He tries to take deep breaths and he tries to take the advice offered by his psychiatrist. His medication appears to work but it's the fifth one so far. His bloodflow stays within his mortal body and his heart beats like cinnamon cement—pitch slow, spice smarting. He feels his body like a serial entrapment. He feels his body like a cage of sinew and striation.

Maybe he thinks and speaks and prays in clichés. He is a cliché himself. He is a hysterical apparition, his nightmares say, and he is wobbling in his understanding that he is imperfect. But, perhaps. Perhaps it can change.

His ears ring and hurt no matter the music in his ears, and he is awfully, awfully, _awfully_ slow on his feet. He doesn't know what to do with himself. Maybe devotion is the answer.

Sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Bright's research facility, Kazimir has decided his own fate—He. Will. Do. _Anything_.

* * *

First is the change of his wretched hands.

These are bigger, he thinks. His sinew is harsh under the bright ( _bright_ ) lights of the laboratory. His fingernails have fallen out weeks ago, his phalanges have started to curl inward.

Kazimir's keyboard is riddled with missing letters and scratched-loose symbols. He finds that he has broken pieces off by accident.

Dr. Raveena Bright had been very clear with him, that he needed to understand what he had signed up for. But perhaps Kazimir is biased, perhaps Kazimir is crazy, but something twinkled bright in her eyes when she looked at him, an open canvas ready to be sliced open and painted beautiful.

Kazimir's hands are noticeably different—sharper, longer fingertips, where nail has been lost to reveal the beginning of keratin claw. Thick, discolored patches on his skin. He has only taken medication she's given to him. It is not prescribed; rather she feeds him the pills by hand, and watches the way his throat moves when he swallows, her eyes as sharp as a crow's.

"Lovely," she had said, her gaze phasing into his. "...Very good, I mean. We'll see each other next week?"

"We'll see each other next week," Kazimir confirms, and watches the sweet curve of her lips when the doctor grins madly.

* * *

At night Kazimir is wracked with pains.

These are recent, these are sudden—his back arching terribly and his guts feeling as though something is crawling through him, inside him, obsessive and possessive—like it will never, _never_ leave him.

His ribs hurt deeply, his diaphragm feeling as though it fractured. Kazimir vomits numerous times, seeing the bile milky white turn gradually to a deep, dark black, like raven hair and corvid smiles. The tar sits heavy inside him, and when he glances at his mirror Kazimir sees himself, trembling, with pitch dripping from his ruined lips and his claws digging into the bathroom sink like suture stitches.

His eyes flash a bleary gold. Kazimir laughs and throws up again.

* * *

Kazimir thinks, initially, that Dr. Raveena Bright has been poisoning him, with every bright smile. She looks healthy, he thinks, her brown skin flush with red, her excitement lighting up every aspect of her body.

"The change has taken in so fast, and you're doing so well!" she gushes, pulling his arms down as she measures the length, shoulder to wrist, with a measuring tape. She's taken his height and weight measurements already, but has decided to make sure his limb proportions were accurate as well—slightly too long, now, makes him look inhuman. "How has the vomiting been? Still painful?"

"Not as much as when it started," Kazimir admits. "Though there have been pains in—in my back, I couldn't get a good look but I think something has—changed."

"Changed?" Bright asks, eyes shining. "Oh, let me see!"

Kazimir obediently removes his shirt, tries not to be conscious of his scar-framed skin, pale lines up his stomach, old injuries marring his ribs. Dr. Bright has him turn around, and with a fervor far too unprofessional for her ilk, she runs her bare hands down the peaks and dips of his spine.

Her fingertips are blazing hot. Kazimir shivers, horribly, and then sighs.

"There's some growths here," Dr. Bright hums. "I've never seen a trial run like this, I've—one second, Mr. Medvedev, let me take some skin scrapings, I'd like to know how the cells are developing here—oh, just—lovely."

"Lovely?" Kazimir repeats wryly. His throat feels hot, the muscles of his back flutter as though something seeks to break free, as though something seeks to embrace the doctor who's done this to him.

"Yes—lovely." Glancing over his shoulder, Kazimir can see the pretty blush on Dr. Bright's face. She really is beautiful—dark circles inside and outside her eyes, glasses sloping off her nose, a gaunt look to her cheeks from hours spent looking at her samples. She is not a medical doctor, no, but perhaps that's why she does not take such good care of herself—too little sleep and too little to eat, her unruly black hair a mess around her little head. Kazimir blearily thinks he'd take care of her. Kazimir blearily thinks he'd do anything.

Bright grins again, though, teeth and all. Her lips are cracked, filled in with maroon lipstick. "I'm sorry, am I being too forward?"

"No, I appreciate it," Kazimir says. He is not sure when his voice shifted from a droning tenor to something guttural and sticky, tar-ridden in the depth of his voice box. "You can call me Kazimir, Dr. Bright."

"—oh! Yes, Kazimir, if you insist—"

"Thank you, Raveena."

She pauses, startled. She tucks a curl of hair behind her ear. "Well—yes. Of course. You're being so gracious with me allowing all this testing, yes—the skin scraping sample! Let me just get the equipment for that, sit tight Mr. Medvedev— _Kazimir_."

It sounds like sweetsong to his ears. It feels like hunger satiated in his gut. It won't last long, but Kazimir smiles at his reflection in the syringes across the counter with all his teeth—he is changing, he is changing, he is changing.

* * *

As treatment for his pains, she performs surgeries on him. Under the table, certainly illegal, and Kazimir lets her do it, lets her do anything, because Raveena—she is everything, isn't she? Her passion is contagious, and his change is _beautiful_ , and the man who looks back in the mirror is no longer a man but a monster of the most _gracious_ sort.

Years ago, as a child, Kazimir's mother would tell him stories of angels—of how they looked with their hundreds and hundreds of wings and their deformed cheekbones, clawed hands and screaming burning voices. The angels were rays of light, see, created by God to be the carriers of his will only—angels have no free will or voice of their own, angels have no agency. They are beautiful terrifying creatures, and to look upon them would be to sacrifice living itself.

Kazimir looks into the mirrors around his home—cracked, aging mirrors, broken with bad luck from how much force he put into hanging them up—and all he sees is an angel.

Accordingly, he must give thanks to his Creator, his God—his doctor.

Raveena is his religion now.

She would roll her eyes and decree herself mortal and minute, of course, if she were to ever hear him say it, but she is divine. She is respite. She is refuge. _She is religion_.

She is clipboards and vials. She is a science fiction cliché. She is the mad doctor at the end of the world, but his world is just beginning.

 _I will be yours_ , he says. He does not falter. She doesn't care.

 _I will be anything_ , he says, and she briefly glances closer at him—at his born body, his creaking bones and hurried pulse points, and his sunken eyes, his screaming ears. She prepares her scalpels, and she laments wearing her gloves, because she wants to _touch him_.

 _Please_ , he says, and she cuts him open with a grin.

* * *

Her lab coat is a bit too large for her slight frame. She looks like love in white, see, bells ringing and vows spoken, as she runs her latex-gloved hands through his sweat-curling hair. His chest heaves with broken breathing and his head spins with broken thoughts, but all he can think when he looks at her is

_Thank you. Thank God. Thank you._

She doesn't really smile, doing this. She becomes concentrated. She becomes distant. She drips her focus and control into him, slow and gooey with tools and trembles. A scalpel to the edge of his mouth, a syringe in his sternum. He is here for her, an experiment, an endeavor, a labor of her own devotion.

(not to him, of course, but a devotion to the things she cares about.)

He doesn't mind, see, when she gently scrapes old sinew from his creaking joints. He doesn't mind, see, when her fingers slide gently into the gaps and gauges of his vertebra. She counts the lumbar, the thoracic, the cervical, and she keeps one extra for herself.

She is soft like this. Her bluebell fingers twirl into his guts like bumblebees to a cornflower. He is dazed, he is anesthetic, and he gazes at the soft pearly shine of black hair and ultraviolet light.

The mad doctor's hands change from blue to red. The surgical mask on her pretty face hides rosy lips that he'd worship. She is so beautiful, reaching inside him. She is so sacred, and she is gracious enough to keep her attention on him.

She is so sacred. She is so beautiful. She is religion.

She weighs his liver and his kidneys. She picks stones from his gallbladder, and then she puts it in a jar. She presses gentle hands against his quivering skin, and she traces his teary eyes with a gentle tweezer.

 _Lovely_ , she says. _I'll make you lovely_.

He sighs in dreamy relief and he gives in to the divine nausea.

* * *

Raveena _walks, talks, breathes_ like a fucking cartoon.

Dizzy long eyelashes done up dark with mascara, lips as pink as what he imagines the inside of her cunt to be. Dirt skin, dirt eyes, outer space hair with star-threaded grays.

 _Dr. Raveena Bright._ Brown skin, brown eyes, rosy lips. Big round swirl-glass frames around big round eyes around a black hole pupil of lovemoneypowerfame. Pupils are the window to the soul, said someone a thousand million hours ago, except she doesn't have one, because she doesn't believe in them.

"You should be a god," he says. "You should. I'd worship you." And she giggles, incredulous, girlish, liquid gasping soda pop and skipping rope heartbreaks, and she says _don't be silly, lovely, I'm just as human as you_.

They both know he isn't human anymore.

If God isn't a woman, then God is test tubes and agar cultures. God is funding cut short and scalpels driven through samples in frustration. Broken dissection trays and a mounting murder of crow bones underneath a tinny mattress. If God isn't a woman then God is this—Dr. Raveena Bright in his lap picking his teeth out with her favorite pliers, and Kazimir on the table with his guts spilling through his rib cage.

Together they're prayer, together they're religion. If God isn't a woman then God is _**THIS**_.

* * *

He fucks her for the first time on her wretched little lab table, a tiny structure he’s far outgrown. She examines him on the floor, nowadays, mostly because he’s become too tall—but the little lab table fits her flight frame perfectly.

Raveena is gorgeous under him, wide-eyed, wild-smiled. Her curls bounce against her sweat-slick shoulders, bare from the force he ripped her shirt with. Her breasts are heaving, fluttering with every thrust inside her. Her cunt is _hot so hot_ it makes Kazimir nauseous, cautious, conscious, she’s so _soft—_

The lab coat is whole, spread open under her ass, hanging over her frail shoulders. Raveena’s glasses are cracked, and she winces when Kazimir swipes them away with his claws.

“Wanna see,” he grits out, and she nods accordingly. Her pretty little cunt is already so red, so _stretched_ around the width of his cock—clit peeking out hot and heavy through flushed folds and slick-sticky curls, and she _jolts_ as a clawed finger presses against it.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Her eyes are so pretty, see—brown as the dirt they’re all born from, the clay God used to craft their being—it’s _her, it’s all her_. His cock is only halfway inside her, still, a part of his creator once more, but he wants to be _deep, deeper, he—_

“You’re too big,” Raveena gasps out, voice wavering at the slick-slide of each knob and bump on his cock. “H-hah, _ahh_ , it’s too much, Kaz, I c-can’t fit—” Her cheeks are flushed red, and lust knots even tighter in his stomach.

“I just want to please you,” Kazimir breathes. “Whatever you’d like. I won’t make you take more.”

Raveena’s whole body shivers and her sweet little cunt clenches _tighter_. “ _Oh!_ Love, my lovely, y-you—” Tears well up in her eyes, dripping into the shadow of her sleepless creases, the hot flush of her skin. “Make me take it, _make me_.”

Kazimir inhales, sharp and small, and he wraps his monstrous hands around the waist of his tiny creator.

“ _Whatever you ask._ ”

She's tight, she's far too tight. He pried her open on her table, dipped his writhing-seizing tongue into her dripping cunt—she tasted like honeysalt and she moaned so _pretty_ as his canine teeth pricked blood from her insides. He opened her as much as he could, until poor Raveena was shivering and panting from orgasm, her hole wide and gaping, and yet _still, still_ , he must slide his cockhead in and out, scraping her insides, until she's wide and sweet and _finally_ he can force the knotted base of his cock inside.

She _screams_ , soundless, sobbing, and comes around his cock. Her pussy gushes fluid, messy against his thighs and hers, and Kazimir _breaks_.

"Mine," he rumbles, " _mine_." His thrusts are harsh and feral, enveloped with furious heat and so much _slick_ , and Raveena whimpers, wails, whines. Kazimir comes inside her, scraping his claws across her belly to leave his mark, digging his fangs into her fragile skin, and watches her stomach bulge slightly with his release.

She's so full, he thinks. They'll have divine children, he thinks.

"K-Kazimir," Raveena whimpers, and gasps aloud as he carefully pulls out of her. Her cunt is ruined, and his chest fills with primal pride—she is _his_. Streaks of heavy come drip onto her bruised thighs, striped with pink splotches of blood, and her slit is opened wide. Her tits are shivering, her mouth is swollen.

She looks heavenly.

"I love you." Kazimir's vile, inhuman voice scratches out what used to be his throat. "I love you so much, Raveena. Stay with me."

"Where would we go?" Raveena asks. Her voice is ruined, too—rasping and soft. "I've worked here all my life."

"I'll take you somewhere," Kazimir says, and maybe he's delusional and maybe he's delirious, high off the thread-like embrace of orgasm and love, but he's insistent, he _wants this, he needs this_. "We can run away. Together. I'll never let you want for anything. _Please_ , my love." He lifts up one of her shaky ankles, kisses the bone gently. "Let me worship you."

Raveena glances around her lab, messy equipment knocked to the floor, Kazimir's evidence of destruction all over the lab table. She laughs, quiet and genuine and beautiful, and it's the first time he's heard her laugh like that.

"Okay, Kazimir." She cups his face with her dainty hands. "I'll follow you—my love, my bear, my monster. I love you."

When she kisses him, his teeth puncture her fragile lips, and the taste of her blood cements his faith.

Together, they will run away, into the woods somewhere.

Together, they will build a church.


End file.
